Flinch
by S.K. Millz
Summary: We rode through town in the backseat of their truck.
1. Flinch

Flinch

S.K. Millz as Sonny Sequel

* * *

We rode through town in the backseat of their truck. The windows were tinted and black and sometimes when the steam lifting off the road glazed them in such a way they would fog up a cool metallic gray and we wouldn't be able to see out of them.

Every once in a while when they were clear we would turn our heads and gaze out at the empty road lined with empty houses and empty buildings. Everything a dull ash brown. Dead twisted trees groping for the misty tin sky like old gnarled hands with pointed spindly fingers. From time to time the two men in the front seat would turn and glance over their shoulders and ask us if we needed anything but we never did.

We were just kids, they kept saying to each other.

It was cold in the city but the backseat of their truck was nice and warm. We unbuttoned our jackets and took off our hats and gloves and rubbed our palms together until the blood came rushing back and we could feel them again.

The truck pulled into an abandoned gas station on the outer rim of the city. The driver parked in the back where a giant oil tanker had overturned in front of a high cement wall and split along its topside.

Don't look like none of it's spilled yet, he said.

The other one shook his head. Doesn't look like it. No fumes. No oil stains.

You get the shotgun. I'll fill us up.

They clambered out and walked around to the back. While the driver unscrewed the gascap and rigged a hose up to the tank the other one fished around inside the trunk for a long black rectangular strongbox. Then he came back around and opened up the side door and peered in at us through squinted hazel eyes.

You two can get out and stretch your legs if you like, he said. Then he turned and knelt down and unlatched the case and withdrew a long black automatic shotgun with a simple household flashlight ducttaped to the underside.

There might even be something special for you inside, he winked.

We glanced at each other, eyes full of wonder. Then we got out and followed him into the store.

The windows had been boarded up ages ago. Sharp white light splaying through the cracks. 

Everything covered in soot and dust and ash. Empty shelves. Empty cabinets. Empty counters. Everything gone. Taken. Looted. Spent.

His flashlight projected a dim yellow oval onto the gritty linoleum floor. We hid behind him. Staying close. Creeping forward. Less than half his height. Hearts thundering.

There's nothing to be afraid of, he laughed, but we weren't so sure.

What did he need the shotgun for?

He checked the coolers and under all the shelves and even in the cavernous stockroom, but all he found was an unopened candybar which he gave to us to share. The sweet brown chocolate and smooth caramel filling helped alleviate our fears. Something special.

There was nothing in the men's room. No soap. No water. No toilet paper. Even the bathroom mirror was missing. For a while we all just stood there in the middle of the floor, staring wordlessly at the walls, feeling the darkness.

The door to the ladies' room was shut and padlocked. It took him three tries to break the latch with the butt of his gun. Then he pushed the door open with his fingertips and shined the light in.

Three of them. Naked. Emaciated. Furless. Stretched out in a heap in the middle of the cold tile floor. Short protruding ribs. Pale colorless flesh. Hanging off their bones. They looked like corpses. Skeletons. Frail wasted bodies. And then they stirred. Bulging yellow eyes like beacons in the gaping darkness. Housed in narrow purple skulls. Tracking us. Veins throbbing. Huge black arteries pounding in their necks. The whole room smelled of blood. They all looked up at once.

He yanked the door shut and ushered us out into the cool gray daylight and pushed us along and we didn't look back.

Are we ready to roll? he asked the driver hurriedly. They packed everything up and closed the trunk and we all clambered back inside and drove off down the road.

The sweet essence of dark chocolate still fresh in our mouths.

* * *

You two headed to Knothole?

Yeah.

What for?

We're refugees.

You come all by yourselves?

No there were some others.

Fallout?

Yeah. Fallout.

Don't worry. You'll be safe. Long as you stick with us.

Okay.

Sleep any out there?

No. Not much. Not lately.

Ain't easy round here. Gotta keep your wits about you.

Yeah you do.

We'll be outside the city soon. Either of you ever been to Knothole?

No.

Ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Oh.

You expect to do right when you get there?

Yeah we do.

Any relatives?

No.

All gone?

All gone.

* * *

We tried our best to clear our heads, but the moment was ours to bear forever.

The truck had begun stopping regularly now. Braking along the abandoned roadside at random intervals. Never idling. There was something wrong with the cargo and every few miles the two of them would kill the engine and take turns getting out and inspecting it.

The trailer hitched to the back of the truck was little more than a giant stuffy black box. Windowless. Dented. Aged. Sometimes they would both get out and throw open the trailer door and just stand there side by side, staring into the mouth of it. Talking.

We could never quite make out what they were saying.

As we rode on the cold gray city broke apart and gave way to a small outcropping of vacant crumbling suburbs. From there a wide plane of vast rolling green countryside sprang up all along the flat horizon. Abandoned brick homes and great lurching farmhouses dotted the sparse rainwet landscape, on into the distance. The dull white sky was lower here and the sifting black ash had settled long ago. We tried counting the busted old mailboxes as they streaked past the tinted windows in a blur but after a while we lost track of them and gave up.

The truck stopped along a broad suspension bridge overlooking the river. Silver water glittering in the rocky pass a hundred feet below. Loud choppy waves lapping against the powerful steel supports.

This time we all filed out. The air was cooler here, the wind hard and blistering and thick with seasalt. A great sprawling pineforest straddled the road on either side, bristling with quiet songbirds. The driver unlatched the trailer door and just stood there watching the river roll on by in silence while the other one led us down into the dark green treecover to use the bathroom. It didn't take us long.

You two ever roughed it before?

No. Not in the city.

Would've fooled me, he said. Seem mighty comfortable out here.

We started back. Halfway up the hill a bright yellow viceroy came tumbling weightlessly down through the treetops, battling the straightedged wind like a plastic bag caught in an updraft. We all stopped and craned our necks and stood watching as it slowly regained its balance and glided on gracefully down the hill. In search of lower ground.

The driver stood in the middle of the road. We spotted him just over the hillcrest. At his feet lay a skinny little otter boy. Mangy blackbrown fur all tousled and caked with sweat and mud. Draped in torn useless rags. Bound and shackled. Mouth taped. Eyes bleeding. Unmoving.

The other one turned and tried to nudge us back down into the valley but it was already too late.

The driver unfastened the boy's restraints and dragged him unceremoniously off to the guardrail at the edge of the bridge, disappearing behind the truck and out of view. No struggle. No scream. Only the steely crash of churning whitewater in the riverbed below.

* * *

You weren't supposed to see that. We didn't mean for it.

Okay.

The boy was sick. More trouble than he was worth.

What was he worth?

Not much. Less than the rest of em probably.

Less than us?

You don't get it. They's not like you. They ain't nothin but a bunch of stray mules.

Why don't you let them go then?

They ain't got nothin to live for.

Alright.

They's objects. Assets. Private property. Understand?

Objects.

They belong to people. We can't just leave em on the side of the road.

No.

They's not like you.

Okay. How many?

Seven now.

Okay.


	2. Pulling on a Line

Pulling on a Line

S.K. Millz

* * *

Seven.

Only seven.

Our eyes flickered like candlelight in the lowered grayness of the night, and the caravan rode on. Mountains sprang up in the distance. Big green mountains like wet mossy stones. The road coiled through walls of rock, snaking through the drizzly pass. All was dark outside save the varnished sheen of rainslick stone, and where the earth ended and the glittering stars began we could not tell.

Driver plucked a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with one hand on the steering wheel. Stale purple smoke curled through the cabin, evaporating as it reached the ceiling. He cracked the window. The shrill hiss of rubber tires stealing over wet gravelly pavement settled on the air.

You know every time you smoke one of those things it shortens your lifespan eleven minutes, Rider said.

Yeah. Well. Fuck it, Driver grimaced.

How much longer on this road?

Long as it goes.

Lemme see the map.

Driver rummaged between slats in the door and removed a crumpled map of the countryside. He unfolded it with his teeth and handed it to Rider who sat studying it in his lap for a long time.

Guess we're on the right track, he said.

Told ye, Driver flicking ash off the head of his cigarette. Wouldn't reckon more'n a couple hours. Half a tank, tops.

Rider wadded up the map and placed it on the dash and leaned back in his chair breathing a long restless sigh of acquiescence. Foggy tonight, he said, watching the map slowly unfurl on the console.

Driver tapped the brakes. Ain't it always, he mumbled.

The headlights cast a dim red wire over a large congregation of shadows just ahead. Resting his chin on the steering wheel, What've we got here?

We counted nine of them. Children, like us. Dressed in shabby brown clothes, some of them with broken chains draggling about their ankles, squinting in the cool artificial light. An old burgundy van lay toppled on its side in the golden tallgrass skirting the road, windows cracked and shattered, front bumper all caved in, wheels spinning idly in the breeze.

A tall badger girl of about twelve stood cradling a shotgun in the middle of the street. She held one hand aloft and motioned silently toward the wreckage. Rider unlatched the pistol below his seat and concealed it in his jacket while Driver stalled the truck alongside the overturned van and pocketed the keys.

The girl came sauntering over and tapped politely on the windowpane with two clawed fingers, standing the shotgun off to one side. Driver rolled down the window and poked his head out as if to better survey the scene.

What can I do for ye?

What's that you're hauling there? She pointed toward the trailer hitched to the back of the truck.

Driver flicked his cigarette to the wind. Furniture, he grunted.

She looked at him with twinkling yellow eyes like glass beads in the frail moonlight.

What all's goin on here? he wondered aloud.

Behind her the children gathered and watched, a few of them clutching tiny knives to their bare chests or hugging themselves for warmth.

They were going to take us to Knothole, the girl replied slowly. But we didn't want to go. We'd heard stories.

Who's that you say was gonna take ye there?

We didn't catch their names, she pouted. Wouldn't do much good to ask them now. What's your name?

He told her what it was and she said her name was Tracy and the two of them shook hands and shared a weak laugh over nothing in particular.

Driver bit his lower lip. Well. We's just passin on through.

She grinned lazily. Where are you four headed?

Just south of Green Hill.

Hauling furniture?

Yes ma'am.

What kind of furniture?

Wood, mostly.

Leveling the shotgun at Driver's chin, Mind if we take a look?

I don't know if that's such a great idea.

Why not?

He smiled innocently. We's on a tight schedule. We've gotta keep movin.

Tracy nodded warmly as if she understood. Please, she said without lowering the gun. It would be better if we took a look.

Driver glanced around for help but none was forthcoming. Fine, he sighed. Can't hurt to take a look I guess.

One by one we all clambered out of the truck at gunpoint. Some of the bolder children wandered over and stood circling us for a better look. The wind was bitter and cold and whistled sharply in the huge rock walls straddling the crowded alley. Dead sandpapery leaves whipped across the dull gray asphalt, crackling moistly under the scampering of feet. We held mittened hands.

We all gathered around the trailer. Rider stood with one hand wedged inside his jacket pocket. The children wore little masks of excitement. Tracy balanced the shotgun at her waist. Driver fumbled the keys as he stooped to unlock the slatted trailer door. The lock popped off like a spent shell casing and the door reeled open with a loud metallic roar.

Seven sets of eyes like glowing orbs gazed out on that cold gray world together looking sickly and bloodshot and fluttering sleepily in the pale moonlight, floating, wondering for what they still existed.

Rider leveled the pistol at Tracy's forehead and pulled the trigger. Nothing. With a crack the slide locked and prevented the round from firing. How often do unjust bullets jam inside their chambers?

The young girl swung the massive shotgun toward Rider's outstretched shoulder and blew it to bloody cinders. His arm curled backward like a broken treelimb. She cocked and fired a second time, black blood coating the smooth brown rocks behind him. He crumpled to the pavement without a sound, eyes wide and white, hands posed before him like stiff little claws, trembling violently in the wind. Blood spouted from his neck. Pink muscles and tendons trailed from his ruined arm.

Driver stumbled and fell. The children hopped up and down excitedly. We closed our eyes and huddled together.

Tracy breathing heavily. The furniture stays with us, she snarled, blue smoke coiling about her face, slowly wreathing outward. You three get on.


End file.
